


Five Times Alex Hears Washington Sing

by chanderson



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Car Accidents, Fluff, Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, One Shot, School Shootings, Whamilton - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-09 21:06:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10421757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chanderson/pseuds/chanderson
Summary: All he can think about is Washington’s voice, velvety smooth and bright—strangely comforting. One thing Alex is absolutely sure of is that he would give anything to hear it again.





	

**Author's Note:**

> As a heads up, the gun violence/school shooting tags apply to Two and the car accident tag applies to Three. 
> 
> I totally took a page out of Pres. Obama's book in Two, so shout out to my man Barry. Also in Two, I'm not very religious so sorry if I got any of the religious terms wrong. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

**One**

The hardest part of Alex’s day is the morning. Not because he’s always exhausted, head foggy with sleep deprivation. Or because he can feel his too many cups of coffee sloshing around in his otherwise empty stomach. No, the morning is the hardest part of Alex’s day because he has to wake up the president of the United States.

He is President Washington’s right hand man—formally titled his personal aide—but Alex thinks ‘right hand man’ sounds a little more important. His friends were very impressed when he dropped that particular title. 

“Right hand man, huh?” his friend Hercules asked, whistling. “You’re like the second most important man in America, dude.”

“I think that’s the vice president, Herc, but I appreciate the sentiment.” 

Alex is damned good at his job, too. He’s been working at the White House for almost 6 months now, and Washington has steadily given him more and more responsibilities. Sometimes he gets to draft memos and speeches. It’s definitely above his pay-grade, but Alex isn’t complaining. 

The second hardest part of Alex’s day is being in such close proximity to the president at all times. Every day, all Alex wants to do is smash his lips against Washington’s. He wants the president to bend him over the Resolute Desk and fuck him until there are tears in his eyes. He wants to slip into the Residence at night and curl up in Washington’s arms, his face being the last thing Alex sees at night. 

His dress shoes click loudly on the polished marble floor as he makes his way to the Residence, already steeling himself for the task at hand. To say that President Washington isn’t a morning person is an understatement. The man is down right belligerent in the morning, cranky and pissy. Alex has been told to fuck off more times than he can count at this point.

The Secret Service agent, Paul, stationed outside the president’s door gives him a sympathetic look. 

“Good luck, kid. He got back late last night from his meeting. He’s bound to be in a mood this morning.” Paul cracks a small smile before reassuming attention, facial features carefully schooled into a neutral stare. 

“Good to know. Thanks Paul.” Alex gives him a grim look before tapping out a simple rhythm on the door: four quick knocks, a pause, and two slower knocks. It’s his usual knock, a way to let Washington know that its him. As usual, there’s no answer, so Alex quietly lets himself in. 

Alex is surprised to find the bed empty and the bathroom door cracked, casting a sliver of light onto the bedroom floor. The rushing sound of the shower starts up and the shower door opens and closes with a thunk. 

He’s about to turn around and leave, his service obviously not needed this morning, when Washington starts to sing. It’s a song Alex doesn’t recognize, but his voice is silky smooth, a bright tenor that suddenly swings low, reverberating with the shower’s acoustics. Alex knows that everyone sounds better in the shower, but he can tell that Washington would be good even without it.

Alex should definitely leave, knows that this is a private moment Washington wouldn’t want anyone to know about, but he’s rooted to the spot. His voice is mesmerizing, and Alex wishes he could be in the shower with him. He can picture it easily: Washington singing to him low and sweet as he washes Alex’s hair for him. It’s enough to make Alex half-hard, and his face heats up in shame, embarrassed that his little domestic fantasy has him straining against his suit pants. 

The sound of the shower suddenly stops and panic floods Alex’s system, his stomach churning. There’s the heavy thunk of the shower door, and Alex’s mind is screaming for him to get the hell out of here before Washington sees him. But then the bathroom door is pushed open and Alex is met with the sight of Washington wrapped in a towel. He’s still wet from his shower, and Alex watches as a few droplets of water slide down his bare chest.

Alex is painfully aware of the bulge in his pants, and he knows Washington notices it by the way his eyes widen. Alex’s heart is hammering hard against his chest and his mouth goes dry when Washington’s tongue subconsciously darts out to lick his lips.

“Alexander,” he says, his expression unreadable. “Can I help you with something, my boy?” 

“No sir,” he says quickly, stumbling over his words. “I just, I came to wake you up, but you’re already awake. So, um, I’ll see you downstairs in the Oval.” Alex sucks in a deep breath and stares at a spot on the wall behind Washington. Washington cocks his head to the side and purses his lips.

“Alright. As always, you’re welcome to have breakfast with me in the dining room.”

“I already ate,” Alex says automatically. He knows that Washington knows he’s lying, but he says it anyway. 

“Very well.” Washington pauses and adjusts the towel around his waist. “Thank you. I’ll see you downstairs.” Alex nods and turns quickly. He practically sprints out of the Residence, ignoring the questioning glances from Paul and the other Secret Service agents lining the walls. 

He doesn’t stop running until he collapses into his desk outside the Oval Office. Martha, Washington’s personal secretary, gives him an odd look. 

“Training for the marathon, Ham?” she asks, looking up briefly from her computer. Alex, still feeling flustered and humiliated, quickly logs onto his computer and opens up the opinion piece on immigration that he’s planning to submit anonymously to The Washington Post. 

“Yeah something like that,” he says as he tries to focus on the words in front of him. He’s typing, but he’s not really aware of what words are appearing on the screen. All he can think about is Washington’s voice, velvety smooth and bright—strangely comforting. One thing Alex is absolutely sure of is that he would give anything to hear it again. 

 

**Two**

Alex and Washington are the only two people in the car and the tension is so thick that Alex wishes he could roll down a window to get some fresh air. He’s starting to sweat in his suit and can feel a single drop rolling down the back of his neck. 

He leans his head against the tinted window and watches the large cathedral looming over them as the presidential motorcade makes it slow crawl to the entrance. He glances over at Washington briefly, noting the heavy bags weighing down his usually bright, kind eyes. His mouth is pulled down into a stoney frown. 

“Mr. President?” he says softly, fighting the urge to put a comforting hand on his knee. “Are you okay, Sir?” Washington blinks and nods.

“I’m fine, my boy. I’d just like to get this over with.” He’s silent for a moment before he heaves a sigh and turns to face Alex. “You don’t think about this part of the job on the campaign trail. I never imagined having to do this.” The anguish in his eyes makes Alex’s heart ache. 

“I’m sorry, Sir.” Alex swallows and reaches over to awkwardly pat Washington’s shoulder. Washington gives him a small smile.

“It’s okay. Thank you for riding with me, Alexander. I didn’t particularly want to be alone right now.”

“Of course Sir. You know I’m here whenever you need me. I’m always happy to help you with anything you need.” 

Washington is suddenly staring at him, his dark, stormy eyes trained on Alex’s face. Alex flushes, the tips of his ears burning red. Washington’s pupils are blown.

“I know you are, my boy,” he says gruffly.

Washington finally looks away, tearing his gaze away from Alex’s. He shifts his weight and turns to look out the window, clearing his throat. “I added your edits into the speech last night. I liked your version better than Burr’s.” 

“Oh. Thank you, Sir.” Alex smiles proudly. This would knock that smug bastard Aaron Burr down a few pegs.

“You have a way with words, Alexander. It’s impressive.” 

Alex is about to answer when the car stops and someone opens the door. Washington gives him a grim look before sliding out of the car. Alex follows him, shivering as the cold, D.C. wind cuts through his suit jacket.

Camera flashes pop and click as they make their way into the cathedral and reporters shout questions at Washington. He remains steely and reserved, striding into the cathedral, looking very much like a man on a mission. 

They’re seated in the first row of pews, and Alex takes his usual seat next to Washington. Alex sneaks a glance at him and notices him grinding his teeth, the muscles in his jaw moving almost imperceptibly. 

More people start entering the cathedral, and their quiet murmurs echo and fade into the high ceiling. The church is beautiful, and Alex cranes his neck up to study the intricate stained glass windows lining the tall cathedral walls. Light filters through them, bathing the gray stone in a brilliant blue.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Alex nearly jumps when Washington leans over to whisper in his ear. His breath is hot against Alex’s sensitive skin and the breath catches in his throat. 

“Yes Sir,” he says softly. “It’s one of the most beautiful churches I’ve ever been in.” Washington hums in agreement, his mouth still dangerously close to Alex’s ear.

“I just wish we were here under better circumstances.” Washington sits back up and folds his hands in his lap, eyes following the priest as he makes his way to the pulpit. His Adam apple bobs in his throat and his jaw muscles tighten. 

The priest’s voice booms in the giant room, his voice echoing and bouncing off of the stone walls. He leads the crowd in a prayer, but Alex doesn’t close his eyes or follow along. When the priest ends the prayer, the resounding amen is shockingly loud. 

Then he introduces Washington and the entire crowd erupts into a thunderous round of applause. Washington smiles sheepishly and waves as he makes his way up to the pulpit. He hugs the priest briefly, says something to him, and turns to face the crowd. The applause continues and Washington raises his hand. 

“Thank you.” He pauses as the rest of the applause dies down. “It’s with a heavy heart that I stand in front of you today. We gather here in memory of 13 beautiful children. Their lives were cut woefully short, ended by a spray of bullets. They were in a school that could have been any school; in a sleepy little town full of good people that could be any town in America. I know that words can’t console you; I know that I can’t take away your pain—the ache in your heart, but I can assure you that you are not alone. From coast to coast, our nation has wept with you; we have held our children a little tighter. I promise you, Harristown, that your pain is our pain. You are not alone and your children will never be forgotten.” The crowd breaks into applause again, more polite this time, but still enthusiastic. 

“I’m incredibly humbled to be standing before you today. Your stories of resolve and strength in the face of unconscionable evil and senseless violence have inspired our nation to be better, to love each other a little fiercer.” Washington pauses and takes a deep breath.

“That these children’s lives were cut so painfully short fills me with an anger that I can’t describe. It’s an anger I’m sure many of you are feeling. I’m tired of watching American citizens lose their lives to gun violence. When will it end? When will the cost of human lives be too much? How many children have to die before our country takes action?” Washington stops and blinks, eyes wet with tears. 

“Can I be real a second?” he asks suddenly, earning a few laughs. He holds his hand up and shakes his head. “No, no. I’m serious.” Alex frowns and shifts in his seat. Washington is going off script, something he rarely does. 

“I need you to know that I am also ashamed to stand before you today, knowing that I’m powerless to end your suffering, that I won’t be able to prevent this from happening again. I took an oath to protect the citizens of this country, but I can’t seem to do that. Our precious children continue to die, our brothers and sisters, parents, and neighbors all continue to have their lives taken for no good reason. People keep dying and I feel powerless to stop it.” Washington’s voice breaks and he heaves a sigh as he wipes his eyes. 

“My aides and my staffers advise me against tackling issues like gun control. They tell me that I’ll only anger Congress and the special interest groups. I need you to know that I don’t give a damn about any of that. My job is not to appease my political enemies; my job is to protect you. I want to promise you today that I will fight every single day to ensure that no one ever has to feel this way again. I can’t take away your pain, but I _can_ prevent more suffering. Your children will not be forgotten.” Washington wipes his eyes again before leaning closer to the microphone. 

The room is silent for a few seconds, and Alex doesn’t realize what Washington is doing until he sings the first word. It’s soft at first, his voice low and throaty. Immediately the crowd falls completely silent. It’s as if the entire world has stopped; everyone is leaning forward, staring at Washington as he sings. 

_There's a land that is fairer than day,_

_and by faith we can see it afar;_

_for the Father waits over the way_

_to prepare us a dwelling place there._

_In the sweet by and by,_

_we shall meet on that beautiful shore;_

_in the sweet by and by,_

_we shall meet on that beautiful shore._

By the time he’s singing the refrain, it sounds like the entire crowd has joined him. Alex’s cheeks are wet with tears as he mumbles along, listening to Washington’s voice reverberate, loud and clear among the other voices. 

When he finishes, everyone surges to their feet, clapping and cheering at the tops of their lungs. A woman behind Alex shouts amen and several people echo her. Washington makes his way quietly off of the stage and rejoins his staff in the pew. He looks at Alex, his eyes still glassy and red with tears. 

“Sorry I went off script,” he whispers. Alex laughs almost hysterically, shaking his head in disbelief. 

“You don’t need to apologize, Sir. I liked your version better.” Washington smiles at him and reaches over to take Alex’s hand. His palm is surprisingly smooth and it completely engulfs Alex’s smaller hand. 

“Thank you, Alexander.” Washington squeezes his hand and Alex squeezes it back, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“You’re welcome Mr. President.” 

 

**Three**

The world is a muted, black abyss, and Alex is floating. There is no sense of time, no sense of up or down—he’s just floating. Sometimes he hears garbled voices and catches a glimpse of a too-bright kaleidoscope of colors above him. Alex has no idea how long he’s been floating here in the space suspended between life and death, but he doesn’t exactly mind it. He’s been here before.

** *** **

“Where is he? Is he alive?” George pants as he practically runs into the hospital, Secret Service agents right on his heels.

“Sir, Mr. President, he’s still asleep.” A man in sea foam scrubs briskly walks up to him and struggles to match his pace. “We won’t know the full extent of brain damage for at least another day. There may not even be any brain damage. It’s just too soon to tell.” The man, presumably the head surgeon, stops walking and crosses his arms. George comes to a halt and stares at him, watches the man wither slightly under his gaze.

“I need to see Alexander right now,” George says slowly, enunciating each word clearly for effect. “I’m sure you already know this, but I am the fucking President of the United States. Do you seriously think you’re going to tell me I can’t see my closest aide?” George’s voice is slowing rising in volume, but he can’t find it in himself to care. “I can wipe entire countries off the map with the press of a button, and I can most definitely beat the shit out of you, so I’d appreciate it if you would tell me which room Alexander is in.” 

The doctor swallows and nods. “Of course, Mr. President. Room 207 at the end of the hall. Visiting hours are technically over, but we’ll make an exception.” George nods tersely and turns on his heel, walking as quickly as he can down the hallway.

He rapidly scans the doors and comes to a sudden stop outside the one labeled 207. His heart is beating erratically in his chest and he feels the familiar squeeze of panic in his chest, the icy bolt of nausea that sweeps from his stomach to his throat. 

“Mr. President?” Julio, one of his favorite Secret Service agents, is looking at him with concern obvious in his rich brown eyes. “Are you okay, Sir? Would you like me to send for some water?” George manages to take a deep breath and tries his best to wipe the panicked look off of his face. 

“No, that’s alright. Thank you Julio. I’ll be inside Alex’s room, and I’m staying the night. Please inform Lafayette and Vice President Adams and tell them they can reach me on my cellphone.” 

George hesitates for another second before pushing the door to Alex’s room open. A fresh wave of panic hits him at the sight of his boy—his bright, beautiful boy—covered in a tangle of wires. A whole fleet of machines looms over him, filling the room with their threatening whooshing and beeping. George closes the door and collapses into the chair next to Alex’s bed. 

He looks almost lifeless laying so still. It’s so unlike Alexander’s usual incessant, high level of activity that, if it weren’t for the steady beat of the heart monitor, George would think his boy was dead. 

George tentatively reaches out to fold Alex’s hand into his own. His skin is clammy, but George can still feel a slight warmth, can feel the pulse in his small wrist. George scoots the chair as close to the bed as he can. The hard metal of the frame digs into his shins, but he doesn’t care. He needs to be close to Alexander, needs that simple reassurance. 

He was in bed when it happened, trying to stave off a headache that had been steadily building throughout the day. Julio was the one who told him, slinked into the Residence and informed him that there was an accident. 

George’s stomach twists with guilt when he realizes that Alex was in that accident because George sent him home early. If Alexander went home at his usual time, he wouldn’t be laying here in this bed. Someone else would’ve been in the cab when it got t-boned. Someone else’s life would be hanging in the balance. George only feels slightly guilty that he would wish this pain on someone else. It’s selfish, but he’s never claimed to be a perfect man. 

He rests his forehead on the bed as a few tears leak from his eyes, racing down the line of his nose before falling onto the pale-blue blanket. 

“Oh Alexander,” he whispers shakily. “If only you knew how much I need, how much I _want_ you. You are such a smart boy… such a beautiful boy. I just want to hold you in my arms and never let go. I want to keep you safe.” George takes a shuddering breath. “I can’t lose you, Alexander. You must know that. I’m sorry I’ve wasted so much time with you.” George sits back up and kisses Alexander’s knuckles, holds his hand against his face. 

George closes his eyes as he’s hit with a sick sense of deja vu. He sees his brother Lawrence’s handsome face contorted in pain as hacking coughs wrack his gaunt body. 

On the nights when the coughing was too bad for Lawrence to sleep and he was sticky with sweat, George would lay in bed with him, hold a bucket under Lawrence’s chin when he coughed up thick mixtures of mucus and blood. And he would sing. 

It was a song George’s mother used to sing to them when they were young and sick. It was an old folk song that his grandmother sang to his mother, and her mother sang to her. George’s mother had a pleasant voice—she sang alto in the church choir—and she would sing the song quietly as she cradled George’s feverish body in her arms. 

George squeezes Alexander’s hand and clears his throat. He glances behind him to make sure the door is shut before he starts to sing. He sings it softly, his voice naturally an octave below his mother’s.

_Swing low, sweet chariot_

_Coming for to carry me home_

_Swing low, sweet chariot_

_Coming for to carry me home_

_Coming for to carry me home_

** *** **

Alex can feel the blackness slipping away, as it always has. The darkness hasn’t taken him yet, and apparently it’s sparing him another day. He feels the sensation of breaking through the surface of the sea, sees the world blurry above him. He is bobbing underneath the surface of the Caribbean as he often did as a young boy. 

The sounds of the world vibrate below the waves, and he can hear them more clearly now. There is singing waiting for him on the other side. Alex can’t make out the words, but he can hear the melody, low and soothing. There is a weight on his hand—his brother James pulling him through the water? Alex doesn’t know if he is a young boy or a grown man. He is just floating under the water. 

The singing is still there, and Alex finally feels himself breaking the surface. He blinks as his surroundings fade into focus. The singing stops abruptly and there is a sharp intake of air. 

“Alexander?” The voice is hesitant. “Can you hear me?” Alex tries to move his head, wants to see the voice. His head is fuzzy, but he knows that voice. “It’s George.” George? Alex blinks and swallows. His throat is dry and all that comes out is a quiet croak. 

There is a rustling sound and then a straw is pushing against his lips. Alex tongues it into his mouth and greedily drinks down the cool water. 

“Why did you stop singing?” Alex finally says, his voice still scratchy. Someone stands above him and Alex blinks rapidly. _George_. “Mr. President? Are you okay?” Alex slurs, his tongue heavy. Washington laughs and reaches out to smooth Alex’s hair back. 

“Yes Alexander. I’m fine, my boy. Are you okay? Does anything hurt? I should get the nurse.” Washington bites his lip uncertainly and looks to the door. 

“No, no,” Alex protests weakly. “Stay with me. Sing to me. You have such a beautiful voice, Sir.” Washington laughs and sits in the chair next to Alex’s bed. He grabs onto Alex’s hand and laces their fingers. 

“Okay, sweet boy. I can sing for you a little longer.” Alex smiles, eyes already growing heavy with sleep. 

“Thank you,” he whispers. 

His eyes slip closed as Washington begins to sing again, the same soothing song as before. Alex falls asleep to the sound.

 

**Four**

Washington’s hand is a comforting weight on Alex’s knee as they ride in silence. New York City blurs past them outside the window, and Alex clenches his fists, digging his fingernails into the soft skin of his palms. New York always conjures up a confusing onslaught of emotions. He doesn’t know how to feel about his old home. It reminds him of the time he spent cowering inside cabinets, trying to hide from his abusive foster parents. It also reminds him of the sweet taste of cheap wine and John Laurens’ easy smile. Alex closes his eyes, wishing that he could stop the constant stream of words swirling in his head.

“Are you okay? You’ve been quiet today.” Alex cracks his eyes open and turns to look at Washington. 

“Just tired.”

Washington’s eyes flicker up to the driver to see if he’s paying them any attention, but he’s dutifully watching the road, purposefully keeping his eyes off them.

Content that no one will see, Washington cups Alex’s face with one broad hand and leans over to kiss him. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs against Alex’s lips. His breath is minty and hot against Alex’s mouth.

“It’s okay. It’s gonna be worth it.” Alex kisses Washington back before pulling away and laying his head on his shoulder. One of Washington’s arms snakes around his waist and pulls him close. 

“Did you know that the Graham School actually evolved out of the first private orphanage in New York City?” Washington asks, forever the history nerd. Alex smiles.

“No I didn’t. That’s cool.” Washington hums in agreement and kisses the side of Alex’s head. 

“A Founding Father’s wife started it after he died in a duel in 1804. He was an orphan, so she founded it in his honor.”

“Really? Which one?” Alex asks, his interest piqued. Washington clucks his tongue. 

“You should brush up on your history, my boy. Vice President Albert Gore killed Justice Anthony Kennedy in a duel after it was decided in the courts that President George Bush won the election. Don’t you remember the Election Scandal of 1800?” Alex shakes his head and Washington sighs exasperatedly. “Vice President Gore accused President Bush of threatening and black mailing Electoral College delegates. It went all the way to the Supreme Court and Justice Kennedy was the swing vote for the decision, so President Bush won despite some pretty conclusive evidence against him. It’s been speculated that Bush promised to help make Kennedy the next Chief Justice, but I guess we’ll never know. His wife, Mary Davis, founded the orphanage after his death.” 

“Damn that’s intense.”

“I know. Our country has a fascinating history, my boy.”

“If only I’d had you as my history teacher. Maybe I would’ve paid more attention,” Alex says, waggling his eyebrows and grinning. Washington huffs a short laugh and squeezes Alex in a hug. 

As the car rolls to a stop, they quickly move away from each other. Washington straightens his tie and gives Alex a small smile before he slides out of the car. 

Washington gives a short speech in the gym, receiving raucous applause from the children in the room, and then they head to one of the classrooms to spend some time with the children.

Alex follows Washington to the front of the room where they both sit down and cross their legs after the teacher introduces them. As soon as she’s finished, the assembled group of children all start talking at once, shouting questions at them. Washington’s mouth stretches into a brilliant grin that makes Alex want to swoon like some cheesy movie love interest. 

“Mr. Alexander, Mr Alexander!” A boy’s hand shoots up and he squirms, waving his arm around to get Alex’s attention. Alex chuckles.

“What’s up, dude?”

“Tell us something cool about the president.” The kids all quiet down and look between Alex and Washington, waiting for the answer. Alex glances over at Washington, and he gives him a small shrug as if to say ‘go ahead.’ 

“Well, he won’t admit this, but President Washington is a very, very good singer.” The kids immediately burst into an excited uproar, begging Washington to sing for them. 

“Mr. President can you please sing a song for us?” a little girl up front asks sweetly, batting her eyelashes. Alex watches as Washington’s resolve crumbles and he nods. 

“Alright, but just this once,” Washington says with a smile. All the children cheer, their faces bright and eager. “Hmm, how about I sing a song you can dance to?” The kids cheer again and Washington laughs. “This is kind of an older song; I’m sure your parents and teachers know it, but even if you don’t know it, it’s a really fun one to dance to. I promise.”

Washington stands up and all of the children leap to their feet. Alex stands a little slower, knees cracking in protest. Alex has no idea what Washington is about to sing, and he’s watching him curiously.

When he starts singing the chorus of Footloose, Alex nearly pops a boner. His voice is as beautiful as ever, but he’s added a little growl to it that leaves Alex feeling flushed. Some of the kids recognize the song and sing alone with him, others just wag their hips to the music.

As he sings, Washington starts tapping his toe and swinging his hips a little. Alex probably spends a noticeable amount of time watching his ass.

It’s the most carefree Alex has ever seen him, and he wishes he could bottle this feeling. Washington looks over at Alex and his eyes are crinkled in all of the right places, lined by joy instead of stress.

This is the moment that Alex wants to remember. This perfect moment where everything is good and nothing else matters. The world outside of the room is on hold. Inside this room Alex has no crippling anxiety; Washington has no political enemies.

In this moment there is just Washington’s voice in his ears and the happy faces of children dancing in front of him. Alex has never felt safer.

 

**Five**

“Hi, Alex, thanks for doing this interview with me on such short notice.” Charles Lee, a reporter from NBC, reaches out and grasps Alex’s hand. His hand is sweaty, and Alex discreetly wipes his hand off on his pants.

They’re sitting on the couches in the Oval Office. Lee looks comfortable even under the hot lights that are towering over them. Alex glances nervously at the cameras surrounding them. 

“Yeah, uh, no problem. I’m flattered you even asked. I’m basically at the bottom of the totem pole around here. Lafayette would probably give you a more interesting interview. As Chief of Staff he’s sort of the proverbial big man on campus.” Lee smiles a sickly-sweet smile that makes a shiver run down Alex’s spine. 

“Oh I doubt that. From what I’ve heard, you’ve made yourself indispensable.” Alex looks away, swallowing nervously. If Lee knew half of what Alex does for Washington, he’d run screaming. 

“Yes, well, people tend to exaggerate.” Lee still has the same smile on his face as a woman flits over and powders his face. 

“You ready?” Lee sits up a little straighter, and Alex does so as well, noticing how he’s slouching into the couch. 

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” 

The camera man counts them off and Alex smiles weakly. He isn’t exactly thrilled about being here. Lee has a reputation for being a little too prying, but Washington thought it would be good for him, give him a little more name recognition for his future. 

“So, Alex, I’ve read up on you and I have to say, you have a very interesting history. Tell me a bit about it.” Alex shifts in his seat and nods. 

“Well, Charles, there’s really not much to tell. I grew up in the Caribbean and came to the United States when I was about 13. I lived with my cousin until he, um, passed away. I was in the foster care system until I got a scholarship to Columbia. Now I’m here.” 

“Why did you decide to come to the U.S.?” Alex swallows. He doesn’t like to talk about his mother. A wave of heat hits him and he has to resist the urge to wipe at the sweat starting to bead on his forehead. 

“My mother passed away, and I knew she would want a better life for me. I reached out to my cousin and used the money my mother left me to get myself here.”

“You mentioned your mother. What kind of impact do you think she’s had on your life?” Alex clenches his jaw and forces a smile onto his face. 

“Um, I guess she just showed me that you can get out of a bad situation if you work hard enough. My father left when I was just a baby, and she had to fend for herself. She worked really hard, and we didn’t have much, but she gave my brother and me the best life she could.” 

“Did your brother come to the U.S. with you?” 

“No. He stayed in Nevis. He had different plans for his life.” Alex shrugs and fidgets in his seat.

“Now, I understand you studied public policy at Columbia. Is that what got you interested in politics?” 

“I’ve always been interested in politics. I like the idea of being able to enact change. Sadly, most of politics isn’t actually about policy change.” 

“What do you mean?” Lee shuffles the papers in his hands and gives Alex another smile. 

“Well only like 1 percent of bills introduced in Congress actually get voted into law. That’s kind of pathetic. I honestly think that most of politics is just campaigning for reelection. It’s sad.” Lee nods, looking slightly surprised that Alex actually has coherent opinions. 

“That’s a very interesting way of viewing things.” Lee pauses briefly before smoothly changing topics away from politics. “So, President Washington is known for having a very diverse staff. You’re the first Hispanic personal aide. Talk a little about that.” Alex tenses up and nearly jumps out of his seat. He can imagine it in his head: He jumps to his feet, punches Lee in the face, and leaves.

“Well, first of all, I’m not Hispanic. I’m Latino, but nice try. I know the whole brown thing can be a little confusing for some white people,” Alex says snidely. Lee’s eyes widen and he looks at the camera man, panic clear in his eyes. “Also, I’d like to think that President Washington hired me for reasons other than the color of my skin. Like I just said, I graduated from Columbia. And no, I didn’t just get into Columbia because I’m brown. I worked hard and fought tooth and nail to get into Columbia. I literally wrote myself out of hell, so I’m a little insulted that you would suggest the president only hired me so he can have a token brown dude following him around.” Alex’s chest is heaving as he stands up abruptly. “Now I think this interview is over.” Alex rips the microphone off of his lapel and drops it onto the couch. 

“Mr. Hamilton,” Lee says. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding.” His voice is small and hesitant. 

“No, I don’t think so. You just asked me a racist question. I don’t know what’s confusing about that.” Alex continues to stride to the door, and he hears Lee snap at the cameraman to turn the camera off. 

Alex shoves the door of the Oval Office open, and Martha looks up at him with her mouth hanging open. 

“Oh my God Alex,” she says. “I cannot believe you just did that.” 

“You were watching?” Alex asks, trying to quell the panic rising in his chest as the weight of what he just did starts to sink in. 

“Everyone was watching it. You are so screwed.”

“Where’s the president?” Alex asks. His voice sounds disconnected from his body, like he’s hearing someone else talking. 

“He went to the Residence to work while you were in the Oval.” Alex swallows and nods. 

“Thanks.” Alex numbly walks through the West Wing. Everything feels very far away. The sounds of the world around him are muted, and it seems like all Alex can hear is his own heartbeat hammering in his ears. 

When Alex gets to the Residence, he hesitates outside the door to Washington’s private office. His chest is tight with panic and nausea is churning in his stomach. He hesitantly knocks on the door. 

“Come in,” Washington growls. Alex pushes the door open and shuffles in. He stares at the floor, unable to look at Washington. 

“What was that?” Washington snaps. Alex immediately feels a surge of anger. 

“I was defending myself. He was being racist. What was I supposed to do? Just sit there and let him speak to me like that?” Alex clenches his fists, finally look up and meeting Washington’s gaze. 

“Not necessarily, but you didn’t have to get up and storm off. Do you know how bad that looks? People are calling you hotheaded, insubordinate. This reflects negatively on our entire administration, Alexander. It reflects negatively on _me._ ” 

“Oh and God forbid anyone thinks you have any faults. Sorry I had enough balls to defend myself.”

“You acted irresponsibly, Alexander. There are better ways to handle situations like that. I thought you would know better than that.” 

“Oh my God are you seriously going to lecture me about this? Everyone will get over it in like two days. Who fucking cares?” Alex shouts, glaring at Washington. 

“Don’t speak to me that way, Alexander,” Washington shouts back, his voice loud and commanding.

“Are you kidding me?” Alex laughs sarcastically. 

“Am I laughing? I’m your boss, Alexander. I don’t know if you’ve forgotten that, but I’m in charge of you. You work for me.” 

“I’m also your boyfriend, and I’d like to think you would treat me with respect because of that. Don’t talk to me like I’m some child you have to chastise. It’s just as insulting as what that stupid asshole Lee said to me.” 

“Just because we’re sleeping together doesn’t mean you don’t still work for me. At the end of the day, I’m still your boss and you have to listen to me.”

“No,” Alex shouts. “At the end of the day you’re fucking me all over this stupid White House. You can’t treat me like an incompetent child during the day and expect me to feel respected and cared for when we’re in bed.”

“I wouldn’t have to treat you like an incompetent child if you didn’t act like one!” Washington’s eyes are flashing and the vein in his neck is throbbing. 

“Oh fuck off,” Alex’s voice rings loudly in the room, and he knows the Secret Service agents can hear him outside.

“Get out of my room, Alexander,” Washington says, his voice threateningly quiet. 

“Gladly. I’ll have my desk cleaned out by the end of the day.” Alex turns and shoves the door open, slamming it closed behind him. 

“Alex,” Julio says from his spot against the wall, looking at him uncertainly. “You’re not really going to quit are you?” Alex sighs, his shoulders sagging as the adrenaline leaves him in a rush. 

“I think I already did, Julio.” Alex sighs and rubs his eyes quickly. “Keep him safe for me.” Julio gives Alex a single nod. 

“Always.” 

Alex turns and leaves the Residence, heading toward his desk for what he supposes will be the last time. 

** \--- **

Alex’s apartment is freezing and dusty. He doesn’t remember the last time he was here for longer than a couple of hours. He hasn’t slept in his own bed in months. Julio and Paul were great at helping Alex sneak in and out of the Residence. 

But now Alex is in his tiny, shitty, freezing apartment. The only saving grace is that he’s wearing one of Washington’s old West Point t-shirts. Or maybe that’s the worst part of the whole situation, because it still smells like Washington—Alex took it just last week—and it’s only reminding Alex of how badly he fucked up.

He’s now single and unemployed. Perfect. 

Alex takes a deep breath and burrows down further under his blankets. Anxiety is clawing at his throat, and no matter how hard Alex tries to ignore it, he can still feel a icy nausea deep in the pit of his stomach. As soon as he got home, he feverishly searched his cabinets for any Xanax, but his prescription ran out a while ago. His life was going so well that he didn’t need it. He doesn’t even remember the last time he went and saw his psychiatrist. 

Alex briefly considers calling his office, but decides against it. The amount of effort it would take is scarily daunting. Instead, he takes an Ambien and goes to sleep at one in the afternoon. 

** *** **

George is in a meeting with his advisors, and they’re supposedly discussing something important. The new gun control bill? Speaker Jefferson’s ethics violations? George isn’t exactly sure. Everyone is trying to talk over each other, and the conversation is getting heated. Lafayette is breaking into French, which is never a good sign.

“I think we’re finished here,” George says. He must sound mad because every head in the room snaps over to look at him. He blinks and shifts uncomfortably in his chair. Lafayette is the first to speak, scrambling to his feet. 

“Of course, Mr. President.” Everyone else in the room quickly follows Lafayette’s lead, though Vice President Adams is a little slow standing. They quietly file out, whispering low to each other and glancing back at George. 

George sighs and leans back in his chair. His head is starting to throb. 

“Sir?” George opens his eyes and sees Lafayette hovering by the door. “Are you okay?” 

George frowns, about to deflect the question when Lafayette squares his shoulders, looking determined. He walks over to George’s desk and looks him right in the eyes. “Something is wrong, Mr. President. I am here if you need to talk about it.” Lafayette pauses and swallows. “I have a feeling that it has something to do with Little Hammie’s sudden departure.” Lafayette quirks an eyebrow and George feels his face heating up. 

“Mr. Hamilton quitting has thrown a bit of a wrench in my day, Gilbert, but it’s fine. I can find a new personal aide. In fact, can you start vetting some new applicants?” Lafayette clenches his jaw. 

“Mr. President, may I speak to you like the old friends that we are for a moment?” Now its George’s turn to quirk an eyebrow at his Chief of Staff.

“Sure…”

“You are so full of bullshit, George.” 

“Excuse me?” George narrows his eyes. 

“Sir, I mean no respect, but I saw him sneak out of the Residence very early one morning. It was the morning the news of Jefferson's violations broke, and I was coming to make sure you were awake. Then Hammie came out the door.” George blanches, his mouth suddenly dry.

“Listen, Gilbert—”

“I don’t need to know the details, Sir,” Lafayette interjects, holding his hand up. “But it is obvious that Hamilton was very dear to you. I suggest you try to get him rehired. He is very stubborn, as I’m sure you know, but I have faith that you can bring him back.” 

“Gilbert,” George says again, standing from his chair. 

“Like I said, I don’t need to know anything. What is the saying? I will have, ah, deniability.” Lafayette smiles and gives George a small, mock salute before leaving the Oval Office. 

George sits back down and rests his head on his folded arms. A thick stack of intelligence reports are resting right next to his nose, but the thought of reading them only makes his head hurt worse. 

No one is in imminent danger. There’s no international crisis. Everything seems safe on the home front. George decides that the country won’t miss him for the rest of the day. 

“Hey Martha.” He sticks his head out of the Oval and she looks up from her computer, surprised. 

“Mr. President, do you need anything?” she asks.

“I just wanted to tell you that I’m gonna call it a day. Can you clear the rest of my schedule, reschedule my meetings, and let Vice President Adams know if he needs to pick up any events?” 

“Of course Mr. President.” She pauses and gives him a once over. “Is everything okay, Sir?”

“Just a headache. I need to sleep it off.” Martha purses her lips and looks like she wants to say something, but she only nods. 

“Alright. Feel better, Mr. President.” 

“Thank you, Martha. Have a nice day. Go home early, okay? Jackie’s playing in the state championship tonight, right? I wouldn’t want you to miss that.” Martha’s eyes widen in surprise and she smiles. 

“Yes, Sir. He’s the starting quarterback.”

“Excellent. Tell him good luck for me.” 

As soon as George gets to the Residence he strips out of his suit and goes into the bathroom. The steam of the shower helps to clear his head a little, but it feels empty without Alex with him. George heaves a sigh and sits on the floor. He shivers as he carefully leans his back against the cold tile.

The entire situation is almost laughable. George can’t remember the last time he sat sulking on the floor of a shower, probably in high school. If Alex was here, he would make some snide comment. Then George would have to kiss him just to shut him up. 

The steam is starting to make George feel dizzy, and his back is sore from where he’s hunched over, so he gets out of the shower and changes into a pair of sweats and an old t-shirt. 

The bed is much too big without Alex in it, and if his head didn’t hurt so badly, George would get up and move to one of the other bedrooms where the bed wasn’t quite so big. Instead, he takes some Advil and goes to sleep at one in the afternoon.

** *** **

When Alex wakes up he feels a surge of panic. The room is dark and his brain is foggy. It takes him a few seconds to remember where he is.

He grabs his phone and squints at the bright light. It’s a few minutes after eight, and Alex scrubs his face. When was the last time he slept for seven hours in the middle of the day? 

He gets out of bed and stumbles into the kitchen, but his fridge is woefully empty and he slams it shut in disgust. He doesn’t even have any alcohol. Alex groans and goes into the living room, plopping down on his lumpy couch. It creaks in protest. 

For what feels like the first time in his life Alex has absolutely nothing to do. Sure he’s got several anonymous editorials he’s working on, but suddenly those seem so inconsequential that he doesn’t even care. Alex closes his eyes and contemplates trying to hit up some of his old dealers. Vicodin sounds really good right about now. 

Then there’s a knock on his door: Four quick knocks, a pause, and two slower knocks. 

Alex snaps his head up and looks at his door. 

The knock comes again. Their knock. 

He gets up and approaches the door slowly, his heart beating loudly in his ears. He stands on his toes and pears through the peephole. His throat tightens when he sees Washington standing outside. Julio and Paul flank him, looking around nervously. 

Alex hurriedly opens the door, mouth hanging open. 

“Sir?” he asks quietly. Washington sighs and nods at Julio and Paul. 

“Thank you for helping me.” They both nod at him and take their positions outside the door. Alex steps aside so Washington can come inside. 

Alex can’t help but laugh. The president is standing in his shit hole apartment wearing joggers and a t-shirt, both of which leave very little to the imagination. Alex wishes Washington would just take him right here against his front door. To hell with everything. 

“Are you laughing at me?” Washington is still standing near the door, and the hurt puppy look on his face only makes Alex laugh harder. 

“No, no. It’s just, the president of the United States is standing in my tiny, dirty shit hole apartment. It’s not a situation I thought I’d ever find myself in.” 

“I came to say sorry,” Washington says softly. “I overreacted.” Alex swallows and waves Washington over to his couch. They sit down close to each other, but they’re not touching. 

“So did I. You were right. You’re my boss.” Washington looks up at him, his eyes wide with surprise. 

“You’re apologizing?” 

“Hey, I’m not _that_ narcissistic. I’m wrong sometimes. Emphasis on the ‘sometimes,’ of course.” Alex smiles to try to ease the tension. Washington is wound tight, and he’s bouncing his leg nervously. The couch squeaks in tandem. 

“Please come back, Alexander.” 

“Sir—”

“ _George_.” Alex looks at Washington in confusion.

“What?”

“My name is George, Alexander. You can call me George. I _want_ you to call me George. In private, of course.” Alex grins. 

“Okay, well, George, of course I’ll come back. I haven’t stopped missing you since I stormed out. Well, actually I’ve been asleep, but I missed you in my sleep.”

“I’ve been asleep too,” Washington— _George—_ says, smiling sheepishly. Alex scoots closer to him and curls into his side. George wraps an arm around him and holds him closely. 

“Really? I didn’t know the president got to nap.” 

“Honestly I don’t remember the last time I took a shower and went to sleep in the middle of the day before this afternoon.” Alex laughs and kisses George’s jaw. 

“You’re so cute. Did you enjoy your first nap in forever?” George shrugs.

“It would’ve been better with you there.” 

“Yeah?” Alex murmurs. He sits up and places a hand on the back of George’s neck, pulling him closer. Alex kisses him slowly and sucks George’s bottom lip into his mouth, sucking on it like George likes. George whimpers, he actually _whimpers_ , in response, and Alex can’t help but grin against George’s lips.

“What?” George says softly, kissing the corner of Alex’s mouth. 

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.” Alex squeezes the back of George’s neck gently and starts placing gentle, closed mouth kisses along his jaw. He nuzzles George’s neck and sighs happily. “Do you wanna take another nap? Together?”

“It’s almost nine, Alexander. I think that counts as going to bed, sweet boy.” Alex sits up and laughs. 

“Okay, fine. Do you want to go to bed now?” 

“I would love to. Sadly enough, I’m still tired.” 

“So am I.”

They go to Alex’s bedroom, which he half-heartedly tries to clean up a little. There are clothes strewn all over the place and empty coffee cups litter the bedside table. Stacks of books sit precariously in every space not taken up by furniture. 

“Alexander, you don’t have to clean up, my boy. I don’t care that your room is dirty.” Alex narrows his eyes and watches as George removes his clothes and folds them carefully before setting them on the desk. Alex rolls his eyes. 

“You just folded a pair of joggers and a t-shirt. You are like the cleanest person I know. You definitely care.” 

“Okay, I do care a little, but I just really want to go to sleep.” Alex smiles a little mischievously. 

“Oh, I forgot to tell you. I’ve got one condition.” George raises his eyebrows and crosses his arms. Alex takes a few seconds to stare at the way it makes his arm muscles bulge out. 

“You have to sing to me.” George looks at him and he’s so adorably confused that Alex walks over and gives him a tight, squeezing hug. 

“You want me to sing to you? Why?” 

“Because your voice is beautiful. I think I fell in love with you that day I heard you sing in the shower.”

George is silent and Alex recoils, pulling out of the hug. “Shit. I didn’t, I mean, I didn’t mean that _literally_.” His face is burning and anxiety shoots through him like an arrow. He turns away from George and busies himself with undressing. 

“Alex,” George says softly. “I love you too.” There’s a beat of silence before George tacks on “and I mean that literally.” Alex turns around and smiles. 

“Really?”

“Of course. You’re my smart, beautiful boy. How could I not love you?” George lays down in Alex’s bed and tries to hide his grimace as he adjusts his weight and tries to get comfortable on the lumpy mattress.

Alex gets in next to him and curls up in George’s strong arms. His apartment doesn’t feel quite so cold anymore.

“Does that mean you’ll sing for me?” 

“Sure. What would you like me to sing?”

“Can you sing me the song you sang at the hospital? After my accident, you stayed there that night. I remember you singing to me.” George tenses and squirms a little.

“I didn’t know you could hear that.” Alex hums and kisses George’s collarbone. 

“I could. It was beautiful.” 

George takes a deep breath and starts to sing. 

_Swing low, sweet chariot_

_Coming for to carry me home_

_Swing low, sweet chariot_

_Coming for to carry me home_

_Coming for to carry me home_

Alex falls asleep, and George’s face is the last thing he sees. 

**Author's Note:**

> I know this was a little long, but it worked much better as a one shot since there were so many connecting themes, and I was worried people would forget them if I posted it as individual chapters. 
> 
> I wrote this listening to the In the Heights soundtrack. If you haven't listened to it yet, you really should. It's amazing, and Chris Jackson is especially amazing in it.
> 
> Comments are very appreciated!


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